Facing The Past
by Ben Barrett
Summary: Nineteen years after the murder of Stan and his family, Kyle is forced to return to Colorado, where the ghosts of the past still linger. Mature themes. KxW. FINALLY UPDATED!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.**

* * *

**Facing The Past****  
**by Ben Barrett

**Chapter One**

**I**

The frigid wind blasted against Kyle, causing him to shiver even through his thick orange jacket. He clutched his arms close to his torso and blew through his hands in a futile attempt to warm himself. It was an unbearably cold day, even by South Park standards, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the hell he was doing outside. He could easily catch hypothermia or pneumonia. At the very least, he'd probably end up with a nasty cold, complete with runny nose and hacking cough. Was there anything that was worth that?

The answer was yes. He'd made a promise to Stan that he'd come over and hang out, and that was most definitely worth it. Stan was his best friend, had been pretty much since they were still shitting their pants. He thought the world of Stan and would have done anything for him. If that meant going out in this miserable weather and suffering the future consequences for it, well so be it then. He knew Stan would have done the same for him, and in a heartbeat at that.

He looked ahead when he reached the corner, gaging the remaining distance until he reached his destination. Two more blocks. No so much under normal circumstances. On an average day, it might take him five minutes at best to go that far. Today, however, was quite different. With the bitter cold numbing him to his very bones and the God damn wind doing its best to freeze him solid, it was going to take him at least fifteen minutes. Fifteen long, agonizing minutes until he stepped into the familiar warmth of the Marsh home and began to unthaw.

As he marched slowly forward, he began to fantasize about what he and Stan might do when he got there. Would they sit and play Gamesphere all day? It wasn't completely out of the question. In fact, the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Just him and Stan, safe and snug on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate, maybe a plate of Mrs. Marsh's homemade cookies. Just the thought of it made him feel a little warmer, and he picked up his pace a little.

_I'm coming Stan. I'm coming._

He kept his thoughts focused on Stan, the most important person in his life, and was able to clear the last two blocks in less time than he thought. When he finally reached the front walk and headed toward the door, he was so excited he could have kicked up his heels. He didn't, of course, because to do so would be gay, and one thing Kyle Broflovski was NOT was gay. Sure, he and Stan may have been closer than most friends, and had even showered together a time or two, but that didn't mean anything. Everything between them was purely platonic. They were best friends. nothing more, and woe to the stupid asshole who suggested otherwise.

Stopping at the door, he rapped sharply upon it three times with his knuckles. It echoed eerily within the house, as if he were knocking on the door of a mausoleum and not a warm and loving household. The sound chilled him far worse than the freezing winter air, and he found himself shuddering. He had no idea why such a sound would ever come from the Marsh home. The only way he could explain it was a trick caused by the weather, or perhaps his imagination. Why he would imagine such a thing was a different can of worms altogether, and not one he was interested in opening.

Several moments went by. There were no sounds of activity from within. Indeed, there was no sign of life at all, not even the obnoxious barking Sparky gave off anytime a person dared to knock, or even get close to the house. This added to the creepiness of the situation, making him feel very uneasy. What the fuck? Had they maybe left? Had there been a family emergency? No, because a quick glance to the right showed Kyle that the cars were still in the drive. Besides, Sparky _hated_ car rides, and would not have been taken along.

_I don't like this at all._

A second knock proved just as ineffective. A third, much louder, yielded the same results. Kyle was scared by this point, and could no longer control himself. Telling his good manners to fuck off, he opened the door and walked in uninvited. If the Marshes turned out to just be in some deep family discussion or something, well it wasn't like he was a complete stranger. He would simply explain to them that he'd come in out of concern, and offer a sincere apology. They were good people; they'd understand.

What he saw when he stepped inside, however, did absolutely nothing to ease his sense of foreboding. The entire place was pitch black, without a single glimmer of light anywhere. It even seemed like the windows were covered, as no natural lighting from outside was visible. This was not good. Mrs. Marsh liked to keep her home as bright as she possibly could. Covering the windows at the Marsh residence would have gone over about as well as eating a ham sandwich at the Broflovski residence. No fucking chance in hell.

As he stood there in the darkness, pondering this, he became aware of two other abnormalities. One was a faint charred smell, like roasting meat. Mingled in with it was the stench of burned hair. These were odors that definitely did _not_ belong. They were fading, as if they'd been caused some time ago, but what the hell were they doing there in the first place?

_Something is wrong. Really wrong._

It was as he was groping frantically for the light switch that he noticed the second thing: a sound like liquid dripping steadily onto an already soaked carpet.

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

He felt his way along the wall, his heart pounding like a jackhammer beneath his ribs. The light switch! Where the _fuck_ was the damn light switch?! He was starting to panic, his breath suddenly refusing to come and sweat beading on his forehead despite the fact that he'd just come in out of the cold. He was groping desperately, madly, praying to Whoever was listening that he'd locate it before he lost his mind. God, he'd been here how many times in his lifetime? Why was he suddenly unable to find something that had always been in the same fucking place?

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

His hand suddenly found the thing it had been seeking, and the room filled with precious, reassuring light from the fixture in the center of the ceiling. He felt a great sense of release, like the youngster who spotted a "monster" in his room and vanquished it by calling for his parents. That same feeling of safety brought about by the arrival of mom and dad washed over Kyle, causing him to relax a little. Everything was going to be okay, after all. There was a rational explanation for everything, and it would become so painfully obvious when he turned to face it that he'd hit himself for being so stupid.

So why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he turn around? Why was he rooted to the spot, unable to control his own legs?

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

That noise was going to drive him mad if he didn't do something soon.

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

Okay, all he needed to do was count to three and then just _do it_. Just like when the doctor says he'll count to three before jamming you with the needle. Take three miserable ticks of the clock, psyche up, and go for it. Simple, right?

PLOCK.

One...

PLOCK.

Two...

PLOCK.

He turned and faced the "rational explanation" he'd been sure had been behind him the whole time. He had told himself in those precious three seconds he'd used to psyche up that it was all just another closet monster, another terror brought on by nothing more than the darkness. Everything would be fine. In the millionth of a second it took his eight year old eyes to take in the reality of the situation, however, it occurred to him that he had been wrong. Horribly wrong.

Stan hung from the ceiling from a noose made from a length of his own intestines. The rest of his bowels were scattered on the floor below him. Where they had once been housed within his body there was only a large, jagged hole. The sound Kyle had been hearing was Stan's blood, flowing down off of his corpse by the pull of gravity and splattering on the rug and the remains of his entrails. He had been stripped of all his clothing, and it looked as though his testicles had been hastily removed with some kind of knife, probably the same one that had ravaged the rest of his body.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion after that. He felt himself moving forward, and he was vaguely aware of the fact that he was screaming Stan's name at the top of his voice. The next thing he knew, however, he was tumbling towards the floor. His feet had caught on something unsettlingly squishy. He landed face-first in Stan's internal organs and instantly recoiled, screaming in horror and disgust. He wiped desperately at his face, wanting the mess off, but only succeeded in soaking his green mittens in blood.

His breakfast suddenly spilled from his stomach onto the rug in a great rush, the remains of his bagels making a foul crime scene even worse.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God._

The tears began streaming down his face even before he was finished heaving. He sobbed through his retching, wishing with every fiber of his being that this would turn out to be some kind of nightmare, that he could just wake up and find that Stan was just fine. He couldn't bear the thought of his best friend hung up like some slab of beef behind him, his once friendly and loving eyes gazing lifelessly from their sockets. No, he'd rather keep his own eyes squeezed tightly shut and block that out than face it. This was all just a nightmare and would be over at any time.

Several minutes ticked by, and with each one the lie became less and less convincing. It certainly didn't help matters at all that directly behind him, Stan's bodily fluids were tapping out their haunting rhythm, each PLOCK! hammering the truth home, little by little. Eventually, he realized that no matter how much he might will it to be so, this was no dream. This was cold, heartless reality, and he was going to have to get up off his knees, open his eyes, and face it. He could not stay here at this crime scene, the stench of his own vomit becoming increasingly potent in his nostrils.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. His eyelids were still squeezed shut so tightly it was almost painful, but he had no intention of opening them until he absolutely had to. No point in tormenting himself unnecessarily. Besides, part of the reason he'd wound up on the floor to begin with was the squishy thing he'd tripped on. He wanted to see what that was about about as much as he wanted to lay back down and put his face in Stan's intestines again.

_I can't get out of the house with my eyes closed,_ he reasoned with himself. _I can't. Besides, the sooner I open my eyes, the sooner this will all be over._

The tears streamed down his face even harder as he realized what an awful situation he was in, and he realized that he had been reduced to what he really was: a scared and fragile little boy. Gone were all the adventures he'd had with his friends, saving the world and giving speeches that sounded as though they'd been penned by a man three times his age. He felt completely shattered, mentally and physically. He was terrified and he wanted his mother more than he ever remembered wanting her before.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

The "squishy thing" he'd tripped over had been Randy's arm. Unlike the rest of his body, which had been concealed from Kyle's view at first by the coffee table, it was laid out across the living room floor in plain sight, palm up. Sparky was on the ground next to him, his body completely blackened, in some places down to the bone. Kyle had only missed seeing them because he'd been too focused on Stan. Had his heartbreak not blinded him, he probably would have spotted their corpses a lot earlier. Regardless, though, the result would have no doubt been the same: Kyle ran screaming from the house, never taking a second look backwards.

"MY GOD! MY GOD! MY GOD!" he shrieked as he ran through the streets. "MY GOD! MY GOD!"

Eventually, someone stopped him and asked him what was wrong, and even went so far as to shake him roughly by the shoulders and slap him across the face in an effort to get some coherent answers out of him. All he would say other than "MY GOD" or "STAAAN", however, was one thing: "His eyes were gone. Randy's eyes were GONE!"

**II**

**Nineteen Years Later...**

The writer sat in his small, dimly lit office, a glass of Scotch on the rocks on the desk next to him. He tapped away furiously at the keyboard attached to him computer terminal, loving as usual the feeling of...accomplishing something when entire paragraphs just seemed to flow effortlessly from his fingertips. He only paused briefly to remove the smoking cigarette from his teeth and flick away the ashes, then replaced it and continued.

"_'She didn't understand the changes that were taking place in her'_," he said, reciting each word as he typed it. The cigarette bounced as he did so, keeping rhythm with him. He found this effect rather pleasant. There was something about it that added to the mood, making it easier for him to maintain focus. "_'All she knew was that she was beginning to have very strange cravings. Did it have something to do with being bitten? She thought...'_"

The telephone range, interrupting his thought patterns and completely demolishing what he referred to as his "groove". He swore loudly, pulled the remains of the cigarette from his mouth, and mashed it angrily into the right arm of his oak desk chair. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to clear his mind and get going again, which was fifteen minutes he could never get back. If this wasn't an extremely urgent call, some son of a bitch was going to pay.

He picked up the receiver and looked at the Caller ID. The readout displayed the name "BURTON, J.V." Fucking grand. It was his God damn agent. This was the last thing he wanted at-- a quick look at his watch-- eleven o'clock at night. What the hell could he possibly want at this hour? Didn't he have a personal life at all?

"Yeah?" he said after pressing the TALK button. No reason to beat around the bush and fake good manners. He saw no reason to be polite to anyone who called after ten, and even if he had made the attempt, J.V. would have seen right through it. He might have gone so far as to tell him to cut the bullshit.

"Broflovski," came the voice from the other end of the line, the one that always made him want to cringe. J.V. had smoked a pack of Camels a day, every day, since he was fourteen years old. Now in his forties, his voice was comparable to gravel in a blender. "Why am I not surprised to find you burning the late night oil again?"

"Maybe I wouldn't be up so late writing if my fucking deadlines weren't so unreasonable," he replied. He picked up the Scotch and drained the glass, then put it down with a grimace. He'd let it sit too long and the ice had watered it down. Next time he'd just have it straight. "What do you want?"

"Always straight to business with you, isn't it? Guess that's just the Jew in you."

He laughed heartily at his own wit, and Kyle was forced to hold the receiver away from himself to keep the loud, braying sound from busting his fucking eardrum. His lip curled in disgust, and he was tempted to hang up on the often antisemitic asshole. Was this the only reason he'd called, to make fun of him and piss him off?

"Aw, don't get a hair up your ass," J.V. said, somehow managing to read his mind, as always. "Listen, I've got news from the publisher regarding your, uh, request."

_Super. This ought to be good._

"You waited until eleven o'clock to call me about this?" Kyle asked, rather annoyed.

"If I'd called at any other time of day, you would have come up with some kind of excuse why you couldn't talk to me," J.V. replied. "At least at this hour, I know that those same stories you always have about having to run off on some errand, or having some meeting to go to would be complete bullshit."

_What can I say? The man knows me._

"Go on, then," Kyle prompted, just wanting to get it over with.

"They say that your request to skip Colorado is denied," J.V. said as nonchalantly as one saying that they think it might rain today. "They wanted me to remind you that a book tour will make or break a novel, and that your last two, uh, 'slash fests' barely made enough money to cover the production costs and your ridiculously large advances."

"That's a load of crap!" Kyle shouted, bringing his fist down on the desk with a bang. "I'm one of their highest selling authors! _Small Town Horror_ outsold J.D. Robb _and _Stephen King!"

"_Small Town Horror_ was five years ago," his agent explained, as if to a small child. Obviously, he was not enjoying Kyle's ego-driven temper tantrum. Kyle didn't give a shit. Doesn't having your first novel beat out two veteran writers on the _New York Times_ bestseller list give you a right to a little bit of an ego? He thought so.

"I don't care how long ago it was!" he barked. "It made me famous enough to be able to call a few shots, I think, and there's no way in hell..."

"They say that if you don't do it, they'll drop you," J.V. cut in. "I don't want to see that happen to you. You've got too much talent to blow it over something like this."

Kyle felt sick. Had things really gotten so bad that he was being threatened with termination of his contract? He didn't understand how that had happened. He used to be on such good terms with his publisher. They had once called him "one of the greatest minds to come out of the late twentieth century." They had been so pleased with him then.

"You know how I feel about Colorado, J.V.," he said, swallowing hard. His Adam's Apple made a loud dry clicking sound when he did so, reminding him that he still hadn't refilled his glass of Scotch. "You know that I...I don't go there unless I have absolutely no other choice."

"I know," J.V. said sympathetically, "and this is one of those times that you really don't have any other choice."

When J.V. finally hung up, Kyle made a beeline for bathroom and his fully stocked medicine cabinet. He pulled out his container of Zanbars and smiled. These would help him to forget, if taken with a beer or something. Yeah; a beer, a burger, and a bar sounded like one hell of a way to end a night. Fuck all of those douchebags who said that mixing medication and booze was a bad idea. They probably just hadn't been through anything bad enough to make them want to do it. He _had_ been, and he was not interested in remembering any of it until he absolutely had to.

_Bottoms up_, he thought as shut off the bathroom light and headed toward the kitchen.

**III**

The worst part about trying to do any writing on a plane was the people. People gawking, trying to sneak glances at the laptop screen, wanting to make conversation. It pissed Kyle off royally and always made him miss the seclusion and privacy of his own study. To make matters worse, smoking was strictly prohibited. The two things essential to Kyle's writing were privacy and cigarettes. Take those things away and he had a hard time maintaining focus, and thus became more irritable that usual.

Sliding his laptop back into his carry on bag, he glared sourly out the window and wondered, not for the first time, if there was some alternative he'd overlooked. He must have gone over his contract at least a dozen times, looking for some loophole or stipulation that might allow him to veto his orders and get out of the mess he was in. There was none, of course, and simply walking away wouldn't be in his best interest, either. Despite the fact that he had written bestselling novels, other publishing companies would probably be hesitant about signing him if he ruined his book tour and gave the company that had made him what he is the shaft.

_I'd be lucky to get a job writing movie reviews for a high school newspaper if I pulled a stunt like that._

He was stuck in this situation whether he liked it or not, and he absolutely _hated_ being stuck. It made him feel helpless, like he wasn't in control of his own life. He had worked his ass off to get where he was, had clawed his way out of the endless cycle that is small time life so that he could have something better than a job shoveling french fries or toiling away his life in some mill. When he was made to feel controlled, he always thought about poor saps in jobs like those, busting their backs day in and day out for a boss who didn't give a shit whether they lived or died. Anyone who thought they could treat Kyle Broflovski that way would quickly find out otherwise.

So why couldn't he do anything about it? All of that was big talk, sure, but the proof is in the pudding, as the saying goes. If he was really such an independent wild stallion, why did it feel as though there was a fucking bit in his teeth? Had he become complacent and weak? No, that was ridiculous. It was caution, that was all. He needed to do the adult thing and not burn his bridges as he crossed them.

"Sir?" a voice called to him softly, bringing him out of his thoughts. He looked over and saw an airline stewardess standing there, looking at him.

"Yes?" he replied, smiling at her. God, she was hot! She reminded him of this pretty little thing he'd met on a flight to Phoenix two years back. He'd taken her into the bathroom, and together they had joined the Mile High Club. He wouldn't have minded doing the same with _this_ woman, if given the chance.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

"That depends," he said, giving a playful smile.

"On what, sir?"

"On whether you'll sit down and have a drink with me," he said giving the seat next to him a pat.

"Ugh," the stewardess said with a slight roll of her eyes, "that has got to be one of the worst pickup lines I've ever heard, and I hear about two or three dozen every flight."

He laughed at this, knowing that she was right and that he deserved it. Sure, such rudeness usually gives people an excuse to scream for a supervisor so that they can bitch and moan about poor customer service and how they were being treated, but he hardly thought that was necessary. After all, he'd started it, hadn't he? Besides, he liked her spunk, her "fuck with me and I'll tear your nuts off" attitude.

"How about a double bourbon, then," he said.

"Coming right up."

Several minutes later, he was staring out into the darkness again, sipping lightly at his drink, imagining himself in bed with the stewardess. He didn't even know her name, but that didn't stop her from moaning his name over and over in this little fantasy. He wasn't sure if it was this or the thought of her bouncing tits that made the erection start forming in his pants, as he really hadn't been paying much attention, but the next thing he knew there was a tell-tale bulge between his legs that he had to conceal from a shocked old lady across the aisle.

He returned his focus to the window and tried to pretend like it had never happened, even as he felt his cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment. Fuck. This trip had barely begun and things were already starting to go wrong. It was gonna be a long fucking week.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into Denver International Airport."

Kyle opened his eyes groggily and looked around. What? Final descent? What the hell? He looked at his watch and saw that it read 8:09AM. Somehow, he'd managed to sleep through the entire flight, though he had no memory of ever dozing off. Either that bourbon had been _really_ strong or he'd been more exhausted than he'd realized.

"Please put your tray tables up," the captain continued, "and return your seats to the full upright position."

Kyle went through his usual mental checklist. First make sure that the cell phone, computer and iPod were all still in his bag. Check. Confirm that no one had lifted his wallet. Check. Inspect the briefcase and inventory all important papers. Check.

_Guess I'm ready._

He knew that was a lie the minute it entered his head. He was not ready for this, would never be ready for this. No matter how he might set his jaw and tell himself that he was strong, he was a professional, and he could do anything, he knew deep down that things were inevitably going to go to hell and he had no idea what he was going to do when they did. Would he manage to keep his composure or would he end up curled up in a fetal position, calling for his mother who was five years dead?

A bump, followed by the screech of tires on the runway, marked the end of the trip. Fifteen minutes later, he was walking out the exit gate with an air of confidence he didn't feel at all. Still, it was good to keep up appearances. He was famous, after all. What would it do to his image if people mistakenly got the impression that he was afraid of flying and started spreading it around? Rule number one of being a celebrity was DON'T GIVE THE PUBLIC AMMUNITION. There were many former celebrities who only lost their place in the spotlight because they made the wrong mistake at the wrong time.

"Kyle?" a voice called out to him, causing him to look over in alarm. He hadn't informed anyone he was coming, so he didn't think anyone would be waiting for him. Obviously, he was wrong. A man with shaggy blond hair and sparkling blue eyes was standing there, less than a foot away, smiling at him.

"K...Kenny?" he sputtered, unable to believe his eyes. "You're...I mean, how...I..."

They threw their arms around each other and embraced tightly. They hadn't seen each other since the summer after fourth grade, when Kyle's family had moved to Connecticut, but the guy had hardly changed a bit.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in amazement. "How did you know...?"

"I didn't," Kenny admitted. "I'm just as surprised as you are. To be honest, I was here to meet someone else."

"Oh? Who?" Kyle asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. That was really none of his business, and asking nosy questions was a horrible way to make a first impression after almost two decades. "Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay, really," Kenny said with a smile. "I'm here to meet Wendy Testaburger."

Kyle felt a painful twinge as the name caused memories that he'd long since buried to come to the surface again, like skeletons raised up out of the cemetery during a flood. Wendy Testaburger had been...Stan's girlfriend. The last time he'd seen her was at the funeral. He didn't speak to her that day, and the dirty looks he'd given her at every possible opportunity had kept her from approaching him. Wendy had always treated Stan like shit when he was alive, so seeing her that day, weeping over the closed casket, had filled him with rage. In his opinion, she had always been unworthy of someone like Stan.

"She's...she's gonna be here?" Kyle stuttered, suddenly feeling a panic attack coming on. He didn't want to see _her_.

"Yeah, dude," Kenny replied. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I've gotta get out of here," he said. He was suddenly having to fight to breathe. "I've gotta get out of here now."

He rushed off before Kenny could get another word in. He ducked behind a large marble column and leaned back against it. He closed his eyes and began working to regain his composure. It was all going to be fine. All he had to do was steer clear of Wendy and it would all be fine. The problem was, how could he accomplish that without being rude to Kenny, too? Kenny hadn't done anything wrong, after all.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck! I knew it was a bad idea to come here._

He sank slowly to the floor and put his head between his knees. He knew this was an undignified position, and that he probably looked like a damn fool, but he couldn't have cared less about his image at that moment. His false air of confidence was long gone. All he wanted to do was find a taxi, go to his hotel room, and...

"Kyle?" he heard Kenny say. He looked up and saw his friend standing there, looking down at him with an expression of great concern on his face. "Kyle, what's wrong?"

Before he could answer, a woman jogged around the column, a small bag slung over her shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late, Kenny," she said. "The boss made me stay and clean up."

She looked down at Kyle with amused recognition. Kyle understood why, but he didn't find it nearly as funny as she did. Wendy Testaburger and the airline stewardess he'd hit on at the start of the flight were one and the same. When he thought of what that meant, he suddenly felt very sick to his stomach.

_I imagined myself _fucking_ her! I fantasized about _fucking_ Stan's old girlfriend!_

Knowing he'd never make it to the nearest bathroom in time, he jumped to his feet and grabbed a nearby trash can. He barely managed to get his face over it before his guts contracted and he found himself vomiting. Wendy recoiled in horror when he did so, but this barely registered with him. All he could think about was how he had finally gone too far. He had had a fantasy that was just...wrong on so many levels.

God, he could really use a fucking drink.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Note From Ben****:** **Wow. I am _so _sorry this took me over a year to update. The good news is, that won't happen again. I've already got the next chap done and am hard at work on Ch04, so this one should start moving as swiftly as _Lost _is. I've also gone back to work on _I Can't Believe It's Not Butters, _which I intend to complete very soon. Call this a crazy writing binge or just sudden lack of anything else to do to distract me, but as long as it lasts, I'll probably keep on updating like this. Hoo-rah, huh?**

**Also: The songs _Red Clay Halo _and _Elvis Presley Blues _were written by Gillian Welch and I do not claim any ownership on either of them.  
**

**

* * *

Chapter Two**

**I**

Article from the _Rocky Mountain News, _dated February 12, 1998:

**Park County, CO.** **- Investigators in South Park, a small community**

**of about 2200 people, are looking into the mass murder of a local**

**family. Details have not been released yet as to the identity of the**

**family or the brutality of the murders, only that there were four**

**victims.**

"**We're handling this the best we can," Detective Yeats of the Park**

**County Sheriff's Department said. "What we need from members**

**of the community and from people in general is to stop calling us**

**and just let us do our jobs. It'll be a lot easier for us to get to the**

**bottom of this if the phone lines are left open for people who have**

**something legitimate to report and for official business."**

**The police aren't the only ones not talking. Our attempts at**

**approaching the locals resulted in vulgar language, obscene hand**

**gestures, or the silent treatment. It's apparent that whatever is**

**going on in this tight-knit community, they aren't welcoming the**

**outside world into it.**

**II**

_Kyle sniffled and looked at the four caskets sitting in a group at the front of the church. In a million years, he never thought he'd be here, listening to someone give a eulogy for his best friend and his family. He wiped the tears away from his young face and hiccuped. He'd been crying hard all day, and he could feel his body starting to protest. His throat felt dry and his stomach was tumbling like a shirt in the dryer. He didn't know how much more of this he could take._

"_The Marsh family always treated me like a second son," Kenny was saying. "Even though I come from the wrong side of the tracks, they never judged me for it..."_

_Kyle admired Kenny's strength. He knew he'd never be able to get up there and speak so eloquently, not today. He'd be lucky to be able to get up there and say his name without breaking down in hysterics._

_He looked down the aisle and saw Wendy sitting there in her black dress, dabbing at her eyes with a white handkerchief. She caught his stare and flashed him a smile that was supposed to be supportive. She gave a half wave, which he returned with a sneer before returning his attention to Kenny. He had nothing nice to say to that bitch. She'd always taken Stan for granted, treating him like garbage every chance she got. He'd trade her for the Marshes any day of the week. Let her rot six feet under the ground, not...not them._

_Kenny finished his speech and returned to his seat, which was right next to Wendy. She whispered something to him and Kyle could see him in his peripheral vision turn and glare down the pew at him. She'd squealed on him for his nasty looks, and he was going to hear about it from Kenny, he just knew it._

_Sure enough, after the service was over, when the hymns fell quiet and the coffins were loaded into the hearses, Kenny confronted him on the way out the door. Kyle felt that gentle hand on his shoulder and looked back into Kenny's sympathetic eyes._

"_I don't wanna talk about it, Kenny," he said._

"_It's not her fault," Kenny replied. "What happened to the Marshes was horrible, but it isn't her fault."_

"_She's a bitch," Kyle said, sniffling and wiping his face with his suit sleeve. "I hate her."_

**III**

Kyle looked up from his menu as one of the many shuttle buses that ran up and down the Sixteenth Street Mall rang its bell and departed. No sign of Kenny yet, which meant that he was either late for their lunch meeting or he just wasn't going to show up. He wouldn't be surprised if the latter were true. They weren't exactly best friends anymore, not like they were when they were kids. Kenny had started distancing himself from Kyle after the funeral, never meeting his eyes and dodging him whenever he tried to talk with would usually have "stuff to do" or would need to meet some hot chick, or would tell him it wasn't a "good time".

_He wasn't the only one doing that, though. Everyone acted weird after it happened._

He couldn't remember much of those years after Stan died, only bit and pieces. Mostly it was major stuff like his lack of friends, the looks everyone gave him when they thought he wasn't looking, the constant lack of eye contact. They actually thought him a freak, as if _he _were the one who had hung Stan up from the ceiling, killed his dog, and murdered his parents. Eventually, he just rolled up into an emotional ball and became an introverted, anti-social person.

Things got no better after he and his family moved to Connecticut after fourth grade. He refused to make any effort to make any friends, and because Stan's murder had been a bigger story than Jon Benet Ramsey, everyone knew who he was immediately and avoided him with as much fear and revulsion as the classmates he'd left behind in Colorado. They all seemed to have this mentality that murder was some kind of contagious disease, and that if they said anything to him or even touched him they'd wind up dead, too.

He thought back, trying to remember someone's face. Anyone would have been fine, as long as it was _someone. _He was dismayed to discover that not only could he not remember any other kids from his classes, he couldn't remember the teachers, either. They were big, blank spaces in his memory, bodies with no faces or defining characteristics of any kind. There were like place holders designed to fill in the gaps where real people once existed.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He looked down at his iced tea, which he'd spiked with a little bit of vodka from his aluminum flask, and pushed it away. All the booze was starting to affect his brain or something, and he didn't like that. He'd always heard that excessive drinking caused memory loss, but he'd never believed it. That was something that happened to potheads, not drunks.

He looked at his watch again and sighed. Another fifteen minutes had passed while he'd been sitting there thinking about a childhood he didn't give a damn about. Kenny was still nowhere to be seen, and Kyle was nearly out of patience. This was his only free day he had for this entire trip. He was supposed to spend the next three at the Barnes and Noble there on Sixteenth Street signing books for fans who would inevitably grate on his last nerve. One thing he always despised about _fans _was their insistence on asking the same questions

_(what's your pen name mean where do you get your ideas from who's your biggest inspiration)_

that he couldn't answer even if he wanted to.

"Kyle!" he heard someone call out to him. He turned in his seat and saw Kenny jogging toward him.

_It's about fucking time._

"Kenny!" he called back, plastering a smile that wasn't all that genuine onto his face. They embraced and Kenny sat down at the table, giving him his most apologetic look.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I got caught up doing something with Wendy and time kinda got away from me."

Kyle understood immediately that "doing something" was Kenny-speak for "having sex". When they were little kids, Kenny was always the one who had something foul to say. Everything was innuendo, everything was dirty. Even as far back as third grade, this was true. He was known throughout the town as the kid with the biggest porno collection, most of which was stolen from his father and had pages that were as stiff as cardboard.

"That's cool," Kyle said with a shrug. "I don't have to be at the bookstore for the signing until tomorrow anyway, so it isn't like I'm on a tight schedule here."

"Not too eager to face your legions of adoring fans, I take it?" Kenny asked, folding his hands in front of him.

"That's an understatement," Kyle admitted. "I think I'd rather shampoo George Foreman's crotch with my tongue than have to deal with one more person talking to me like we're on a first-name basis or something, like we're best friends. _'Oh, you can call me Rusty. Think we can maybe swap emails sometime or maybe grab some lunch some day you're free?' _Yeah, buddy, I see _that _happening."

Kenny frowned at him and Kyle could sense his disapproval. He'd obviously misunderstood his meaning. He wasn't a snob by any means and even went out of his way to oblige his fans when they caught him on the street and asked him for an autograph. One incident that came to mind was a rainy evening the previous October when he'd been walking home from the corner store with his arms filled with grocery bags. A lady, about mid-twenties or early thirties, stopped him and asked him if he'd sign her book. He considered it rude and a more than a little inconsiderate to make this request when she could see he was already carrying far more than he could handle as it was. Still, he held his tongue and put his bags down on a nearby newspaper dispenser so he could sign his name on her copy of _Small Town Horror._

"It just gets tiresome after awhile," he explained to Kenny. "I really appreciate their support, I do, not only because it's more than I ever got from anyone else after Stan died, but because it pays my fucking bills."

The waitress came and brought Kenny a menu. He took it with a smile and ordered a ginger ale, then turned back to Kyle.

"So tell me what you've been doing with yourself all these years, other than writing," he said.

"I, uh, don't know," Kyle said, fishing for some kind of answer. How could he have fucking forgotten his own childhood? He grasped for an event that might trigger some kind of recollection and came up with his graduation, which turned out to be just another blank.

_Who gave the speech? Wasn't I the valedictorian? What did we do that night?_

He couldn't pull up one detail about it; not the location, the date, or the events. He couldn't even remember receiving his diploma, which was supposed to be a really big deal. He looked down at his hand, as if inspecting his palm would bring back some kind of memory. All it did was remind him of the large scars that ran from the base of his thumb to the pinky finger on _both _hands. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten those, either.

"Getting Alzheimer's, grandpa?" Kenny joked and grabbed Kyle's iced tea off the table. He took a sniff and pulled away with a laugh. "Maybe not Alzheimer's, but you're definitely suffering from Russian Brain."

"Russian Brain?" Kyle asked, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah," Kenny replied. "That's when you drink so much Vodka your brain shuts down and only gives you bits and pieces of your memories when it decides you need them...comrade."

Kyle wasn't feeling all that hungry anymore. He wanted to go back to his hotel room and lie down for a few hours before he had to call J.V. and find out the details of this trip. Was he scheduled to appear on any of the local news shows? Normally, he would have known a good week before arriving, but there had been a bit of discrepancy with none of the local stations giving a shit about him. He hoped that it would stay that way and he would be able to at least get one or two more hours of sleep before having to show up for the book signing.

"I think I'm gonna get out of here," he said. "I'm not really feeling all that great, you see."

Kenny looked hurt by this, though Kyle couldn't imagine why that would be. He'd only agreed to their meeting because of their childhood ties, and didn't really feel there was any kind of emotional tie between them.

"I see," Kenny said, frowning down at the tabletop.

"What?" Kyle asked, laying his irritation on thick.

"I was just hoping, you know, that we could get reacquainted."

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said, rising to his feet. "Elementary school was many years ago, as was any real pull you might have once had with me."

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and threw a twenty down on the table. His drink had only been two bucks, but he didn't give a shit. The waitress was going to get one hell of a tip, because he wasn't sticking around to wait for the damn check.

"What are you planning to do with your spare time while you're here?" Kenny called out to him as he walked past the table and toward the street. The tone of his voice was challenging, damn near demanding.

"I dunno, Ken," Kyle snapped, stopping to glare at him. "I hadn't really given it much thought. Not that it's any of your business anyway."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Sounds like you were planning to do that anyway."

Kenny took a deep breath and released it slowly. He was visibly agitated, possibly upset enough to try and take a swing at him. Kyle didn't know for sure because he didn't know Kenny and had no idea what he was capable of. This was no different than agreeing to have lunch with any other fan, and obviously no less dangerous. Well, if he did something stupid, Kyle would see him behind bars within five minutes. He wasn't the kind of person who had to know how to fight to be able to say he didn't take any shit from people.

"Don't go to South Park," Kenny growled. It was _not _a suggestion, that much was apparent immediately, and Kyle resented it. He had a hard enough time taking orders from his editor and his agent.

"Who the hell are you to tell me where to go?" he asked, pulling off his two-hundred dollar sunglasses with an agitated flourish. "Who the hell are you to tell me _anything_?"

"I'm telling you this for your own good, Kyle," Kenny said, sounding more like a father than ever. "I know you and..."

"You know shit!" Kyle spit back.

"I know _you!" _Kenny retorted. "How difficult is it to figure out a guy who writes under a name like K.B. Marsh? You're still obsessed with Stan and the person who killed him. I see it in every one of your books, I've seen it in the undertones of your movies, and I can see it in _you_."

Kyle turned and walked off again, not wanting to hear any more of this shit. He'd been through many, many years of therapy from people who'd been _trained_ to give him advice and who had cost his parents over a hundred dollars an hour. Kenny had probably never even stepped foot in a medical school to even ask to use the fucking bathroom.

"You know what your problem is, Kyle?" Kenny called to him as he made his departure. "You just don't know when to let things go._"_

Kyle put the headphones of his iPod in his ears and kept walking.

**IV**

Kyle sat a little table inside Barnes and Noble, watching people walk by him without so much as a second glance in his direction. He'd only signed two autographs in the three hours he'd been there, and one had been by a little girl who'd mistaken him for Carrot Top, something which deeply offended him. He wondered how many of these people could even fucking read. One of them, maybe two? Why the hell were they acting like he wasn't there?

_I suppose I should be grateful that I haven't been asked any of those stupid questions, but what does this mean for my career? Am I washed up? God, how long has this been going on?_

He waved to the manager of the store and told him that he was going to take off early since there was little interest and that he'd be back in the morning. The manager thanked him for coming and being so patient, something that Kyle knew wasn't really all that genuine. This guy didn't know who he was any more than his idiot customers did. He was just flashing his best customer service face out of habit, probably from years of doing it over and over, day in and day out. _Thank you, come again. Thank you, come again. _The only thing this guy really needed was dark brown skin and a generic Apu accent and he could just as easily be managing a 7-11.

He walked to the parking garage two blocks down and located his rental. He pulled out and immediately sped out of the city. He didn't know where the fuck he was going or if he was even going anywhere at all. He just needed to get behind the wheel and drive for awhile. Maybe things would get better after a day or so in Denver, once people realized that he was there. In the meantime, he'd just cruise and listen to his favorite CD, which happened to be a mix of Gillian Welch songs. He didn't know why, but her bluegrass drawl had always appealed to him, even though he'd grown up listening to rap and R&B. She had a sound all her own that never failed to make him smile.

_When I pass through the pearly gates,_

_will my gown be gold instead?_

_Or just a red clay robe_

_with red clay wings_

_and a red clay halo for my head._

He found his fingers tapping the steering wheel to the beat and soon he was lost in the music. Denver gradually faded into the distance until the skyscrapers were nothing but large gray blobs sitting in a cloud of dirt and smog. He saw the turnoff that led to Park County and smiled to himself. If Kenny was going to be a douche and order him to stay away from the place he'd called home for nine years, well he'd go there simply to spite him. He didn't give a shit.

He dropped his speed from seventy to forty-five, which for some reason was and always had been the speed limit on the county roads around South Park, and made his way home for the first time in almost two decades. The landscape hadn't changed much; he easily picked out familiar landmarks, like the abandoned mine shaft jutting out of the side of the mountain and the cool waters of Stark's Pond. It was like he'd never left at all, like the better part of twenty years meant nothing, which he realized it probably didn't around here. No matter what happened, no matter what catastrophe befell the townsfolk, they always seemed to just pick up the pieces and move on with their daily routine.

He passed a wooden sign on the side of the road that had been there since the time of Moses, which read:

**SOUTH PARK, 1 MI.**

**GO COWS!!**

He felt his stomach twist on itself and he had to pull off the road. He sat there for several minutes, gripping the steering wheel tightly as his guts contracted. He did _not _want to vomit again; once was quite enough for this trip. He took a few slow, deep breaths and tried to get himself back under control.

_Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe it isn't that important to prove Kenny wrong._

The bad thing was he _knew _Kenny wasn't wrong. He'd known since he'd gotten the call from J.V. that he wasn't going to able to handle any of this, just like he knew that any thought of simply shrugging off the ghosts of the past and paying a friendly visit to Stan's grave was wishful thinking.

"Why the hell am I out here?" he asked Gillian Welch, who was crooning about Elvis Presley. "What purpose will this serve?"

_I was thinking that night about Elvis,  
day that he died, day that he died....  
_

He slammed his fists on the steering wheel and jerked himself upright in the seat. He cranked the ignition and floored the gas as the engine came to life. The back tires spun out, kicking up gravel and snow in a festive spray before finally catching the road and sending him rocketing toward South Park at an easy eighty miles per hour. He knew he was breaking several laws, but he didn't give a fuck. He reached down with one hand and pushed in the cigarette lighter, his mouth watering at the thought of taking a drag. God knows he needed one.

He heard the familiar BLOOP-BLOOP of a cop's lights coming on and cursed the sorry fuckwad who made the goddam speed limit so goddam slow, goddam it. He applied the brakes and pulled into the dirt and slush for the second time. He had no doubt that it would be Barbrady who'd stopped him. He'd been the only real cop in decades. Every now and then while Kyle was growing up, he'd see someone deputized and for a brief period they'd have two officers patrolling the streets. Eventually, though, someone would see that the deputy was more competent that Barbrady and would offer him or her a position in County or even State, and they'd be back to the same old idiot again.

He pulled out his license and registration and rolled down the window with a frustrated grunt. The cop took his sweet time getting out of his patrol car, probably because he didn't want to pull his fat ass away from the warmth of the interior or to intentionally antagonize him. Kyle guessed the former; Barbrady had never been a spiteful individual. Lazy, yes, but not spiteful.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" the cop said, finally making his way to the window, his hand on his gun by default. Kyle was surprised at first to see that it _wasn't _Barbrady, but then realized that after so much time, the man had probably retired.

"Because I have a busted tail light?" Kyle said with a grin; the cop didn't return it.

"No, sir," he said, all business. "You were doing eighty in a forty-five zone. Do you realize how many people you could have hurt going that fast? They don't even let you pull that shit on the _interstate, _buddy."

Kyle handed him his license and registration with a mumbled apology. It won't happen again, just in a hurry to get home after so long, blah, blah, blah. He figured it probably wouldn't work, and wasn't surprised when he saw that the officer wasn't even listening to him. He was looking closely at Kyle's license like it held the secret location of Jimmy Hoffa's body.

"I should have guessed it was you, Broflovski," he said. "Nobody else would be this damn inconsiderate."

"What the hell--?" Kyle stammered, completely shocked at this son of a bitch taking shots at him. He looked up and saw the little silver nametag above his badge. OFF. C. DONOVAN, it said. So he'd been pulled over by _Clyde_, of all people. He knew it shouldn't have surprised him that the second fattest dude in their class next to Cartman would wind up a cop.

"You shouldn't have come back here, you know," Clyde said, frowning at him. "You don't belong here."

Kyle had to bite his tongue to keep from telling him to write a damn ticket or get out of his face. He wasn't interested in hearing his fucking opinion.

"I won't be here long," he said, and that was no lie. He planned to get the fuck away as soon as possible.

"I'll let you off this time," Clyde told him, handing him back his papers, "with the understanding that if I catch you out here again, I'll make sure they throw the book at you. Do what you've gotta do, then follow the sun on out of here."

Kyle waited for him to back up, then started the car and pulled out with a little more grace. He pulled the cigarette lighter out and lit up a Marlboro and took a long drag. As the nicotine invaded into his system and gave him the head rush he loved so much, he sighed happily and allowed himself to relax a little bit.

He had no idea what Clyde's problem was. He didn't think he'd done anything to offend anyone. It wasn't his fault that he'd been the one to find Stan's body, and there was no reason for Clyde to act like such a jackass.

_Fuck it. This will be over before I know it, then I can put this place behind me forever._

The problem was, even in his own head this sounded like a load of crap.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**I**

An article from _US Weekly, _dated April, 1998:

**PARADISE LOST**

**Once, the town of South Park was a friendly community filled**

**with average working Joes, people who would give you the**

**shirt off their backs if you were down-and-out. They were**

**warm and hospitable, welcoming newcomers into the town**

**not with organized committees, but with invitations to join**

**this family or that family for dinner. It was the kind of place**

**where one would feel comfortable raising children, going to**

**church picnics, and growing old.**

**The keyword in all of that is 'was'.**

**Two months ago, the quiet solitude of this happy place was**

**completely eradicated by the murder of an entire family in**

**one of the most brutal and grisly slayings the state of**

**Colorado has ever seen. Now, those once friendly people**

**cast cold, distrustful stares at strangers and watch every**

**car that rolls down their streets through their windowpanes.**

**Children are picked up from school the minute the bell**

**rings and transported to the safety of their homes, where**

**newcomers are no longer invited for dinner.**

**The question on everyone's mind is WHY? Why would a**

**person do such a thing, especially in such a tranquil setting?**

**It's a question the police have been asking themselves for**

**the last two months as they go over the evidence again and**

**again with a fine-toothed comb, hoping for some clue as to**

**the identity of the slayer and their motive. They've brought**

**in private detectives, dogs, specialists, psychics, and any**

**other individual they can think of who might be able to shed**

**some light on the mystery.**

**The strangest piece of this puzzle is the overall lack of DNA**

**at the crime scene. As brutal as the killings were, the police**

**were positive that the perpetrator would have left something**

**behind that could be used for identification. A hair follicle, a**

**fingernail, a drop of sweat; any of those things would have**

**been damning evidence. Sadly, the only DNA found anywhere**

**belonged to the victims themselves and to the young boy who**

**found them, who was left covered in blood and gore after**

**tripping over one body and landing in the remains of another.**

**And speaking of the boy, where is he? He's vanished under**

**the shield of police protection, leaving behind not a single **

**clue that might reveal his identity or his relation to the victims.**

**Did he ever exist or was this just a story fabricated by the**

**police to come up with a way to explain a botched job with**

**the DNA evidence? It wouldn't be the first time Colorado cops**

**covered their own unmentionables by telling lies about**

**their own incompetence. Jon Benet Ramsey ring any bells?**

**II**

_Kyle was sprawled out on Doctor Rathgib's couch, his hands folded on his belly. This had become a weekly routine since...Stan went away...for him to talk about his feeling while she listened with pad and pen in hand. She often scribbled little notes as he spoke, and he couldn't help but think of those cartoons where the patient got a look at the supposed "notes" and saw that the doctor had actually been doodling offensive caricatures of them. He tried to remember as he vented that her opinion of him didn't matter, that his parents were paying her to listen to him, not like him._

_"I sometimes think that Stan would still be alive if I'd done things differently that day," he told her, twiddling his thumbs and casting a look in her direction._

_"What makes you think that, Kyle?" she asked, looking at him over her spectacles. He tried not to think of them as 'half-moon spectacles' because that made her seem more like Dumbledore, which made it hard not to laugh at her when she did that._

_"What if I could have stopped what happened?" he replied. "What if I'd gotten there earlier, or if I'd asked him to come to my house instead? He would have been out when it all happened, wouldn't he?"_

_"You don't know that."_

_He did, though. In some part of his mind, he knew that if he hadn't gone to Stan's house that day, Stan wouldn't be dead. It didn't make any sense, but he knew it as surely as he knew his nose was too big and his balls were hairless._

_"Kyle, you've got to stop blaming yourself for what happened that day," Rathgib said. "There's nothing you could have done that would have stopped it. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you'll be able to go to bed and not wake up screaming."_

_Kyle thought about this, then shrugged it off. That conversation was going to get them nowhere. It was his fault, plain and simple. She'd never accept that and he'd never believe anything else as the truth. He should have at least been there to protect his best friend._

_"Let's talk about Wendy," she said. "Why do you hate her so much?"_

_"Don't wanna talk about that," he replied, folding his arms stubbornly. "She's a bitch."_

_Rathgib glared at him. He'd been told several times not to use such language in her office, and he knew that this time she'd probably go to his mother about it. His mother would be furious, and she'd probably get the soap..._

_"Sorry," he said quickly. "I slipped."_

_"Uh huh."_

**III**

Kyle stood in South Park cemetery near a small mausoleum that had been erected in the back corner, in a copse of apple trees. It had taken its fair share of beatings from the weather over the years and sported the usual stains and mossy growth that graveyard limestone always seemed to bear like some badge of honor. Still, it was in good shape for something that had been standing for as long as it had. Certainly there were newer graves in the place that had fared a lot worse.

The first thing he noticed, other than the condition of the structure itself, was the four name plates upon the surface. Each one bore only the first and middle names of each person, since their surname was etched into the top of the tomb. Randy was on top, followed by Sharon and Shelley. At the bottom, Kyle saw Stan's plate and felt his breath catch in his throat.

**STANLEY WILLIAM**

**1988 – 1997**

**"Rest with the angels**

**now, beloved son."**

Kyle felt the tears sting his eyes and he had to blink them away. Even after all these years it hurt like hell. It was unfair that such a thing had happened to these people, and it was especially unfair that it had happened to Stan. Kyle remembered him as a generous, sensitive person who was willing to be just about anybody's friend, even if it meant looking like a fool for doing so. He was one of the most loving people in the world, and his candle shouldn't have been snuffed out when it was.

Kyle blinked and really saw for the first time the flowers sitting in the holders. There was a bouquet for each of them, and they were _fresh_. He hadn't been the only person who'd been by here lately. Someone else had had the Marsh family on their mind.

_Or maybe they just had Stan on their mind but brought flowers for everyone to be respectful._

That wasn't really a fair assumption and he knew it. It wasn't such a hard thing to believe that someone would come visit Randy and Sharon. Hell, people probably came and visited Shelley, not because they remembered her as a sweet and attractive girl but because she'd died before her time, as a young child of only twelve.

"I loved you all so much," he said, his voice cracking. "You were my second family, and you meant the world to me."

He felt eyes on the back of his head and knew immediately there was someone standing behind him. He turned to look and saw Wendy there, her gaze as frosty as the snow on the ground. He turned away from her as if he hadn't seen her, as if she were just another ghost in the cemetery.

"You're the one who put the flowers on the graves," he said.

"Yes."

Kyle pulled his pack of cigarettes out and stuck one in his teeth. He pulled out his Bic and was in the process of lighting up when Wendy stormed around him and snatched it out of his mouth. She snapped it in two, then in fourths, then she spit on the cherry to extinguish it. That accomplished, she tossed it over the fence into the woods beyond.

"Hey!" Kyle cried. "Those are expensive!"

"Have some fucking respect, Kyle," Wendy snarled at him. "If you're gonna smoke, at least do it outside the gates, and _definitely _not around _this _grave."

"Hey, here's a newsflash for you, Wendy," he shot back, letting his voice escalate just enough to let her know how pissed he was. "They're _dead_! They're not gonna get lung cancer!"

Her hand flew up before he could process what was happening and slapped him across the face, causing him to turn his head in shock. When he looked back at her, there was a nasty red handprint on his cheek.

"Don't ever talk about them like that again," she said. "Show some damn respect and at least act like you give a fuck."

Kyle opened his mouth to reply, but he was too damn angry and his head was running at about a mile a minute. She had actually dared to insinuate that he didn't care about Stan or his family? What a damn bitch. He'd loved Stan like a brother. He'd loved him more than words could even express, and she had no right to suggest that he didn't. He told her so, and she spit at his feet in contempt.

"_Loved_ him?" she barked. "You didn't _love_ him. Hell, I don't know if it's even possible for your cold, black heart to feel love, Kyle. Maybe you don't realize that. Maybe you feel something that you _think _is love, but I can promise you it isn't. Not if that's what you call what you felt for Stan."

Kyle was getting pretty sick of this shit. Why the hell did everyone want to ride his ass and make him feel worse about the whole damn thing? It was like pouring salt into a deep wound, making the pain more severe than it needed to be.

"What the hell is everybody's problem?" he asked. "First Kenny, then Clyde, now _you_. I didn't have any control over what happened that day, Wendy. I spent years in therapy while the doctors tried to convince me of that, because I was convinced that I _could have _saved him. I actually believed that if I hadn't gone to Stan's house, he'd still be alive. Now that I've finally made it past that hurdle, everybody's acting like it's _my God damn fault!_"

Wendy looked as though she were going to reply, but a voice rang out over the gravestones and they both turned to look. Kenny was walking toward them, calling Wendy's name and looking pissed as hell. Kyle rolled his eyes and bit down on his fist to keep from screaming. Now he was gonna hear it from _this _asshole again. All he'd come here to do was pay his respects to his childhood best friend, who was probably nothing but a pile of dust by this point, but everyone seemed to want to bitch him out lately.

"I told you not to come here," Kenny hissed at him as he threw a protective arm around Wendy's shoulders. "I _told _you."

"And I take orders from you now, do I?" Kyle asked. He stormed past them and toward the parking lot. He thought briefly about sneaking back and paying his respects a day or two down the road, when they wouldn't be expecting him, but decided against it. It would all just be too much to handle. He'd come here to say his piece to Stan, and he'd said _most _of it. If he really wanted to say the rest, he could just wait until he was in the privacy of his hotel room and say it. He didn't have to be near a mouldering pile of dust to do that.

"People here don't like you, Kyle," Kenny said, now walking beside him and matching him stride-for-stride. "But I'm still your friend. I shouldn't have shunned you all those years ago, and I've always felt bad about that. Now I'm trying to look out for you like I should have done all along."

"Save your pity friendship for someone who gives a shit," Kyle snarled, stomping through the gates and immediately grabbing his pack of cigarettes. He lit one up and made sure to make a big production out of blowing a big cloud of smoke up in the air. It was childish, but dammit he thought it was funny as hell.

"It isn't _pity,_" Kenny argued, coughing and trying to wave the smoke away. "I'm the only one who seems to genuinely give a fuck whether you live or die. I'm giving you advice that's going to keep you alive."

This made Kyle stop. This was either bullshit, or there was something sinister going on. Did Kenny know something about Stan's murder that he wasn't revealing? Had they caught the bastard who did it while he was off in Connecticut? No, that was ridiculous; he would have seen it on CNN if they'd finally busted the guy who did _that_.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "How is staying out of South Park going to keep me alive?"

Kenny sighed and sat down on the hood of Kyle's rental car. Kyle considered telling him to move his fucking ass.

"Look," Kenny said, "a lot of people here are still really sensitive about what happened. They don't even talk about it. When young kids get old enough to ask about the Marsh house, which hasn't been lived in since..._it_ happened...their parents just tell them 'We don't talk about that' and then pass the carrots across the table. It's taboo, and _you _represent that taboo."

"So, they'd kill me so they wouldn't have to tell their kids about a group of people who got killed?" Kyle repeated slowly, adding as much sarcasm as he could. "Yeah, _that _makes sense."

"I'm just telling you the way it is."

Kyle finished his smoke and lit another with the cherry before flicking it away.

"Is it any wonder why we moved away, then?" he asked, pulling out his keys and unlocking the door. He'd had enough of this to last him a lifetime. He cast one last look around, knowing that he'd never come back. This final impression of Stan's resting place would be the one he would take to his own grave.

"Kyle," Kenny said gently, "you can't judge them for being sensitive about it. The Marshes were beloved members of the community, and living examples of the kind of open door policy the entire town lived by. They were caring, generous people, and when they...died...it shook everyone up."

"Did they ever figure out who did it?" Kyle asked.

Kenny didn't respond for a minute. He bit his bottom lip and Kyle could tell he was debating whether he should tell him or not.

"The police never figured it out," Kenny said carefully, "but the townsfolk did."

"Vigilante justice, was it?" Kyle asked, hoping that they'd fed the son of a bitch to a pack of starving wolves, one piece at a time.

"Kyle," Kenny said with an unhappy sigh. "Go home. You're picking at a wound that's been trying to scab over and heal for a long time. Let it go."

With that, he turned, put his arm around Wendy, and walked away without another word.

**IV**

When Kyle got back to his hotel room, he went to the mini bar and grabbed himself a vodka. It had been a long day, one that he wanted to file away in the dustiest corner of his mind and forget about. He threw himself down on the bed and turned on the TV, hoping to find something hot and sexy to distract him until he could get good and drunk. It wasn't any fun to get drunk thinking about dead people. He flipped through the stations, seeing advertisements for Oxy Clean and American Furniture Warehouse, a documentary about Hitler's horse, and finally Larry King Live.

He stopped there, always amused by the way Larry King could look like a buzzard lurking on a tree branch even when talking about happy subjects. Kyle always thought it would be funny to see an animated version of the guy actually drawn as a buzzard, screeching into his microphone while his producer threw him dead rabbits.

"Man, this guy has got to be the oldest Jew on the planet," Kyle said with a laugh.

They were talking about something that Kyle didn't give a damn about: the effects of frivolous American spending on the global market. He tuned it all out and took a sip of his vodka. It wasn't hot and sexy (and Kyle hoped that those words had _never _been used to describe Larry King) but it was a distraction. Maybe it would provide the right amount of background noise he needed to do some writing.

He pulled his laptop from his bag and was in the process of firing it up when the phone on the bedside table rang.

"Son of a bitch!" he growled. "Always when I'm working."

He picked up the receiver and uttered a perfunctory greeting. J.V.'s voice greeted him from the other end, something which never signaled good news for Kyle.

"What is it, J.V.?"

"Wanna tell me why you walked out on your signing today?"

Shit. J.V. wasn't happy, and if _he _wasn't happy then his publishers were _furious._

"Because nobody gave a shit that I was even sitting there," he explained. "Nobody even glanced in my direction, and after three hours of that, I felt my obligation to at least show up and be ignored was fulfilled."

"Well, you may have fucked yourself," J.V. said. "They're talking about pulling your contract again, Kyle. I don't think I need to tell you that they're getting pretty sick of having it come up."

"So why don't they do it?" Kyle asked. He had enough money to retire and live comfortably for the rest of his life, barring some big cocaine binge of course, so if they dropped him he wouldn't really _suffer _all that much. He just liked being a writer, liked setting his own hours and getting to do what he loved for a living. If that were taken away, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

"Because, believe it or not, they actually think you're a good writer, Kyle," J.V. explained. "You may not think it sometimes, though for the life of me I can't figure out why, but _they _do. They don't want to lose you. They know as well as I do that you've got real potential and that you could write bestsellers if you'd just put down the damn booze."

Kyle sighed and rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine coming on.

"Tell them I'll sit through the rest of the signings even if nobody shows up," Kyle said. "Do that for me, J.V. Get me out of doghouse with my publishers and I promise you that the next book will be the best one I've ever written."

There was a pause and Kyle could hear J.V. clucking his tongue. He always did that when he was contemplating something.

"Okay," he said. "I'll get you out this one last time, if it's at all possible, but this is _it_, Broflovski. If you mess up again, if you walk out of a signing early or if you show up drunk like you did in Phoenix, and let me remind you that _that _was after you disgraced yourself by having sex with the stewardess on the airplane, then I'll have no power to help you anymore. You'll be done."

"I understand."

After they hung up, Kyle went into the bathroom and stripped down to the skin. He hadn't bothered to grab a change of clothes, but he didn't give a fuck. This was _his _hotel room, and if he wanted to walk naked from the bathroom to his suitcase, that was his choice. He turned on the shower and adjusted the knobs until the temperature was just right, then climbed in. The water cascading over his body was heavenly. It felt like the stress of the day was being washed away, off of his shoulders and down the drain. He went through his normal routine of shampooing his head and crotch and letting the soap work itself in while he scrubbed the rest of his body.

As he soaped up his chest, he began to think about Kenny's words. He wasn't welcome in South Park, that was for sure, and that was fine by him. He doubted he'd have time to really make any more runs out there anyway. Still, it seemed like the guy was hiding something from him. Why the hell did he get so evasive when Kyle asked if they'd caught the person responsible for the murders? It hadn't escaped his attention that he'd chosen that point to walk off, dropping the whole conversation as if it had never happened.

_You're picking at a wound that's been trying to scab over and heal for a long time. Let it go._

What the hell did that mean anyway? It sounded like something somebody said in one of those conspiracy movies. There was always some cheesy, predictable line like "You need to stop digging around" or "You really need to STOP asking so many questions". Following that line of thinking though, was there something about the murder of Stan and his family that people didn't want him to know?Were they fucking _hiding _something from him?

He felt like hitting something. Stan was _his _best friend, damn it. If there was some kind of discovery, some kind of break in the case, they shouldn't be _keeping _it from him; they should be _sharing _it with him! For what felt like the hundred millionth time that day, he thought how unfair it was that everyone was treating him like it was all his fault. There wasn't anything he could have done.

He stepped from the shower and dried off. He walked back to the main room and caught a glimpse of the TV. Larry King was still squawking for his dead rabbits, and Kyle thought it just a little bit weird to watch Larry King in the nude. He switched off the set and climbed naked into the bed. He pulled the bedclothes up to his waist, then grabbed his laptop and pulled up the first porno he could find, which happened to be this weird clip of two lesbians and a German Shepherd.

_Why the fuck not?_

**V**

_Kyle dreams he is standing on a snowy street in South Park. Stan's house is just ahead of him, which is a good thing. He's so cold his fingers are numb even through his green mittens. If he'd had to spend too much more time in this shit, he probably would have frozen solid._

_He makes his way to the front door and gives a knock. It echoes through the house like a tomb, and Kyle is chilled by the sound. When no one answers, he knocks again, with the same result._

_"What the hell?" he says, opening the door and walking in._

_The inside is like a scene from hell. Stan hangs from the ceiling, just like Kyle remembered from all of those years ago, but his eyes are alive and accusing. Kyle feels his blood run cold and he knows that a sight like that could make a person go stark raving mad._

_"You could have saved me, Kyle," Stan gurgles. "You could have done something."_

_"NO!!!" Kyle cried. "It wasn't my fault."_

_Randy rises from the floor, his eye sockets black holes filled with blood._

_"You could have saved us," he snarls. His voice is close to a demonic baritone and Kyle feels his bladder give out. He pisses himself through his green pants and it drips down his leg onto his shoes and the floor._

_"Look what they did to _me,_" Shelley hisses like a snake as she crawls down the stairs. Her throat is cut wide open in an ear-to-ear grin and blood cakes her shirt all the way down past her rosebuds, which will never have the opportunity to develop into true breasts._

_Kyle is paralyzed by his fear as they advance toward him. Stan even drops from the ceiling and slithers toward him, his remaining intestines dragging behind him on the floor. They leave a grotesque bloody trail. _

_"OHGODOHGODOHGOD!!!"_

_The only one who seems to be missing is Sharon, who as if on cue emerges from the kitchen with a large knife sticking out of the top of her head, which she holds under her arm._

_"Welcome home, Kyle," she says, her face a mask of pure evil. "We've been waiting a long time to be reunited with you."_

_Kyle suddenly finds that he can run again and he bolts out of the house as fast as his legs will take him. When he steps onto the front stoop, he finds himself back in South Park cemetery. He casts a look around in confusion, but this only lasts a minute, as he can see a large gap in the wall of the Marsh family tomb directly behind him. There is a flight of stairs there which descend into the ground, and the heat coming from the opening is unbearable. Stan and his family are dragging themselves out of the depths of hell, determined to catch him and drag him down to his damnation...._

**VI**

Kyle woke up screaming, telling Stan that he was

_(sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry)_

sorry, shrieking for mercy, begging them to please leave him alone. He did this until the concierge unlocked the door and barged in, thinking that he was being murdered. They were furious to find him there in the nude, the bedcovers on the floor and a large urine stain on the mattress.


End file.
